_AHMAD'S LAST STRATAGEM_
From the moment of Prasad's reappearance at Gopalpur Ahmad's jealousy
was rekindled to greater force even than in Jhansi. He hated the
Hindu noble with all the vindictiveness of his nature. Had stirring
events not followed each other with such rapidity, he would have
sought a pretext for an open quarrel, and once for all settled their
rival claims to the Rani's affection. If he was chagrined at Prasad's
selection to act as her envoy to the Maharaja Sindhia, the feeling
was intensified on the other being chosen as her standard bearer at
Bahadurpur, and by Prasad's telling stroke for her favor in saluting
her as Princess of the Marathas at the grand _Darbar_.
At the subsequent banquet he sat in sullen, gloomy humor. He neither
spoke nor feasted. At the call to drink of spirits and join in the
carousal of the assembled nobles, he pleaded his religious principles
as an excuse to withhold his lips from intoxicating liquors.
That the Rani was not present at the banquet was to be expected, but he
marked Prasad's absence, and drew conclusions from a guilty conscience.
They were together, he surmised. His duplicity was probably discovered.
"What then"? he again and again asked himself.
For the vengeance of Prasad he did not fear. His arm was as strong
as that of his rival. But he dreaded the form of retribution usually
visited at Native courts by a powerful enraged woman. He conjectured
that the Rani's resentment would not be displayed in a burst of anger,
a dagger thrust openly at his breast; but in one of those covert ways,
by which such offenders as himself were disposed of, to terrorize the
stoutest heart. He might be invited to an entertainment that led to
the dungeon of a fortress, there to die of cholera, so it would be
affirmed. Obnoxious people often disappeared without an explanation.
The blank of that unknown was fraught with the suggestion of torture,
and a lingering death by slow poison.
As Ahmad glanced uneasily round the hall, every shadow seemed to warn
him of impending danger. The palace was no safe place for him if the
Rani and Prasad were together. He had better, indeed, gain the outside
of the walls of Gwalior until he had made up his mind what course to
adopt. He rose to carry this idea into immediate effect.
"What, art thou going"? his neighbor asked in a tone of friendly
rebuke. "Thou, who art ever the first in war and the last to leave a
banquet."
"To-morrow is a fast," Ahmad tersely rejoined. "I would be early at my
devotions."
His neighbor laughed banteringly.
"Your devotions"! he exclaimed. "Ah, to be sure, and to a fair deity,
I doubt not. It is ever the way with you Mohammedans. Your Prophet
takes good care that his followers are provided with _houris_ on earth
as well as in heaven. But good luck to you. May she speedily reward
your prayers."
"The fool," muttered Ahmad, as he passed from the hall by the nearest
exit. "A very yielding deity is the one I have in mind."
With caution he made his way through dark passages and courts out from
the palace. He strode rapidly into the narrow, squalid bazaars of
Gwalior, directing his steps toward one of the city gates, heedless
of the rejoicings of the people among whom he passed. He breathed the
night air more freely when he had left the walls behind.
At the camp, which was his first destination, he found the soldiers
drinking in celebration of the victory, and disposed to be quarrelsome.
He approached his own quarters and sternly ordered a few men, upon
whose temporary fidelity he could depend, to saddle their horses.
Curses and blows soon brought them to their senses and obedience. In
his tent, Ahmad quickly sorted and placed in security about his person,
the lighter and more valuable of Sindhia's jewels that had fallen to
his share. Then he came forth, mounted his horse, and led the way to a
dwelling situated a few miles out from the city.
It was a house he had visited on a previous residence in Gwalior,
secluded, and within easy reach of the hills in case of the necessity
of flight. It was owned by a member of his religion, who received him
with every outward sign of friendship.
There, he determined to remain for a day or two, and by means of spies
watch the actions of the Rani and Prasad.
Such news as he did thus receive inflamed his jealousy still further,
and confirmed the surmise of danger in his position.
The Rani, it appeared, had taken up her abode in the camp, to direct
the maneuvering of troops and the erection of fortifications in the
defiles of the hills against a possible return of the enemy. Prasad
was observed constantly at her side. It was evident he had entirely
regained her favor; it was almost certain the moving hand of the Jhansi
intrigue had been detected.
Clearly, to Ahmad's mind, Gwalior was no safe place in which to remain.
He had better away before the Rani's vengeance fell.
He argued further, that, for other reasons, a severance of his
connection with the Native cause would now be a wise course. The jewels
he had obtained from Sindhia's treasure were of considerable value.
He had taken other booty, too, that could be turned into ready money
through the agency of his Moslem host. With this, he might return
to Afghanistan and placate the Amir, from whose anger he had fled,
consequent upon the death of a relative of that monarch, charged to
Ahmad's long account of such affairs. Besides, what business had he to
fight in the Peshwa's name? Had the Emperor of Delhi been proclaimed
at the _Darbar_, religious principles might have enjoined upon him
the duty of remaining in the field, but he owed no allegiance to the
Hindu king. As a fanatic, at heart, he detested the Hindu faith and its
followers. His object had been to fight with them, first to vanquish
the Foreigners, and then, in the name of the Mogul Emperor, subdue his
allies. But that hour was now unlikely ever to come. The Emperor was a
prisoner in the Foreigners' hands, and such power as was regained to
the Native cause through the victory of the Rani of Jhansi, lay with
the Peshwa. He despised and hated the Peshwa, so he decided to withdraw
from Gwalior, though not alone. He purposed to carry the Rani with him
by force, if such an act were possible. He thought out his plan deeply,
for in it there was no little danger.
That night, he determined to ride into the camp and direct one of
his followers to seize her from her tent, then away before an alarm
could be given or a rescue effected. It was a bold project, but he
was prepared to risk much in a last attempt to secure her embrace. If
frustrated in the act, he could lie, fight, or fly as circumstances
dictated. The chief difficulty lay in discovering her sleeping
place, as it was reported she changed her tent nightly. Over this,
he pondered, at length arriving at the decision to decoy the Rani's
secretary to his house, and by threats compel him to disclose the
secret, if it were preserved as such. He sent forth two of his men,
discreet in such affairs, to lay hold of Bipin Dat.
As it happened this proved to be an easy matter.
Like the majority of the Rani's followers, Bipin had plunged into a
demonstrative celebration of good fortune. With head held aloft and
chest expanded, as he considered was the proper carriage for one who
stood so near to the person of the Heroine of Gwalior, he had gone
forth on the morrow of the victory to impress upon everyone he met
the exalted nature of his office. He was thus received by all with
protestations of friendship, given the best to eat, and unluckily more
spirits to drink than it was prudent for him to imbibe. Alas! For two
days the worthy secretary had been absent from his duties.
In sober intervals, marvelous were the stories he recounted of personal
valor in battles fought side by side with his great mistress. His
audiences gazed upon him with eyes wide open, as they listened with
ears of deep attention. At the conclusion of each narrative the brave
secretary must accept another cup of spirits. Of a truth the brave
secretary seemed as great a drinker as he was a fighter. He always
protested, but drank the spirits nevertheless. At last he stumbled
across an accursed unbeliever in his prowess, one of those unpleasant
people to be found among all nations, who will persist in placing a
vocal mark of interrogation after every man's statement.
"At Bahadurpur," Bipin asserted, "six of the Foreigners I killed with
this arm. Their Maharaja I would have captured, but that he plunged
with his elephant into the jungle."
"How could that be"? asked the incredulous one, "since there were no
Foreigners at Bahadurpur, their general does not ride on an elephant,
and there is no jungle within leagues of the place. To be sure what
thou sayest is doubtless true, honorable sir," he added apologetically,
"but other accounts of the battle differ so much; and what am I, but a
seeker after the exact truth"?
Bipin glared angrily upon the venturesome man, but his ideas were not
in such order, just at the moment, to discover an answer on the tip of
his tongue. Fortunately, two men who had sat attentively in a corner
came to the relief of his confusion.
"Thou art a miserable fellow," interposed one, addressing the doubter.
"If the great secretary says he killed six of the Foreigners at
Bahadurpur, they must have been there to be slain. If he asserts the
Foreign general escaped on an elephant, did he not possess eyes to
note the difference between that beast and a camel. Wert thou at the
battle"? he asked pointedly.
"Aye, wert thou at the battle"? echoed the companion, "otherwise thou
art an ass to talk in such fashion."
The doubter was compelled to admit that he had not been within miles
of the fight, when the secretary's confusion was transferred to his
countenance.
Bipin effusively thanked his champions for their belief in his words.
In turn they insisted upon drinking a cup of spirits with so great a
man.
"Ah"! exclaimed the first who had spoken, "what would not my poor
master give to hear such tales as flow from thy lips."
"Who is thy master"? asked Bipin, with a solemn period between each
word.
"The Raja Krishna Singh, great sir," the other replied respectfully,
"a Gwalior noble whose infirmities have for long held him to his
couch, and prevented his attendance even at the grand _Darbar_. He
would receive thee with all honor as the Rani's secretary, and reward
thee handsomely if thou wouldst deign to tell all thou knowest of the
glorious Queen of Jhansi. Her name is ever in his mind. My companion
and myself would gladly lead the way to his house."
Bipin's pride was immensely flattered. His society was now being
sought by a raja. Soon he would be a raja himself. With condescension
he agreed to accept the invitation, after he had drank another cup of
spirits to steady his feet.
"Is it far to thy master's house"? he asked.
"But a short distance beyond the walls, noble Secretary," his new
friend replied.
"_Wah!_ Then I will go with thee now," Bipin assented.
He endeavored to rise, but the additional cup of spirits had an effect
contrary to what was intended. His limbs collapsed under him as if
disjointed. He would have been obliged to remain on the spot but for
his friends' assistance. They helped him to his feet and out into the
bazaar, then with strong arms supporting him on either side, they
hurried him to the gate.
For a time, Bipin chattered incoherently about battles, rajas, and
palaces; when it began to dawn upon his obscure understanding that he
was travelling a great distance. His feet dragged over the road as if
weights of iron were chained to his ankles. He begged to be permitted
to lie down and sleep. To his dismay his companions gruffly ordered him
to move faster. It suddenly occurred to him that he might have been
abducted by thieves.
He cried once for help, but a hand promptly laid over his mouth stifled
the sound. In a firm grasp he was thrust unwillingly forward.
At last they came to the house occupied by Ahmad Khan, when Bipin
was conducted out of the darkness immediately into the Mohammedan's
presence.
For a moment the secretary stood blinking in the light with no idea of
his surroundings. He had entirely forgotten the object with which he
had been induced to set forth from the city; but Ahmad's countenance
seemed familiar. Through a mental haze, the thought came to him that
one of his uncles had heard of his good fortune, and had arrived to
obtain a share of his money. This was a displeasing, if not an entirely
unlooked for event, so he determined to disavow the relationship
before the other had time to make himself known.
"Go away," he ejaculated, with his eyes fixed stupidly upon Ahmad. "Go
away. Thou art a rogue, a lying _fakir_. I swear thou art no uncle of
mine."
"What, thou drunken fool," shouted Ahmad in a voice of thunder. "I
would as soon be uncle to a litter of swine."
He clutched Bipin by the throat, and held him until the secretary's
eyes and tongue protruded. Ahmad hurled him into a corner.
"Get water," he cried, "and throw over the idiot. Then, perhaps he will
come to his senses."
But Bipin had arrived at a realization of his position. He recognized
Ahmad, and begged forgiveness for his mistake.
"To be sure," he returned feebly. "Thou art my good friend, Ahmad Khan,
though a little rough and quick in resenting an error of sight on
coming in out of the darkness. I beseech thee to say no more about the
pitcher of water."
"That wilt depend how quickly thou canst gather thy wits," Ahmad
sternly replied.
"Surely every one of them are now in my head," answered Bipin,
frightened at Ahmad's manner. While he endeavored to recollect how it
was he had been induced to come to the place, he began to change his
previous good opinion of the Mohammedan.
"Then listen," enjoined Ahmad, "and speak truly or a torch applied to
thy feet may quicken thy understanding. Dost know in which tent the
Rani sleeps to-night"?
As Bipin had not been to the camp, he was not possessed of the
information, but under the circumstances he thought it best to withhold
his ignorance. In any case, he reasoned, it was probable Ahmad would
not place credence on his denial, and might carry his threat of the
torch into effect.
"Certainly, great sir," he replied. "If it be thy desire, I am ready to
point out the Rani's tent."
"Where is it situated"? Ahmad asked.
This was a difficult question for Bipin to answer off-hand. He
hesitated a moment before he replied.
"Where is her tent placed"? Ahmad again demanded.
"Great Lord," stammered Bipin, "near to,--I mean on the right of that
occupied by her Valaiti guard."
"Thou art assured of this"?
"Noble sir, why should I tell a lie"? Bipin questioned in return.
"Good, then," Ahmad resumed, bending a stern look on the secretary. "In
two hours we set forth from the camp. When we arrive there, thou wilt
point out the Rani's tent to one of my men. If thou hast spoken the
truth, then thou canst go to the devil for aught I care; but if a lie,
the Rani will herself have thee well beaten. It is her order that thou
dost obey me in this," he added, in response to a surprised look on the
secretary's face, "as she awaits a secret message that must fall into
no other hands."
Ahmad then withdrew to call down, as usual, the blessing of God on his
evil intent; leaving Bipin in charge of an attendant.
An attempt on the secretary's part to discover Ahmad's object further,
was met by a silent repulse.
Truly, the situation was not one to afford the secretary cheerful
reflections. He knew no more than Ahmad of the position of the Rani's
tent, but he trusted that in the scuffle likely to ensue, from an
entry into a tent presumed to be that of the Rani, he could escape. He
had told a lie in the first place, and was now afraid to disclose the
truth. Whatever was the result, he vowed henceforth to transfer his
watchful eye from Prasad to Ahmad, as it was evident the Mohammedan had
a disagreeable, an unfriendly side to his nature.
"What a miserable existence is this," concluded Bipin. "We have no
sooner climbed to a great height, than a rock slips from under our
feet, and behold! we are again where we started. If I only get well out
of this, no prospect shall tempt me to remain away from my family."
Presently the effect of the secretary's libations overcame his fears,
and snores proclaimed unconsciousness.
Bipin had slept for about two hours, when he was awakened by a rough
hand laid on his shoulder, while a voice commanded him to rise
immediately.
He was led to the outer door of the house, where a group of horsemen,
with Ahmad in their midst, were accoutred apparently for a long march.
With considerable effort, emphasized by impatient oaths from Ahmad,
the secretary was assisted on to the back of a spare charger. Ahmad
gave an order, and the party set off at a brisk pace through the
darkness of midnight toward the camp--silent, grim visaged figures,
ready for any desperate act.
Ahmad approached the camp at a point where he was well known and
would be permitted to pass unquestioned. He inquired his way to the
headquarters and rode thither with caution. Then he ordered two of his
followers to dismount and carry out his previous directions.
There were no lights, and for a space Bipin stumbled about among the
tent ropes.
"Thou fool," muttered one of the men. "If thou dost make such a
disturbance the whole camp will be awakened. Where is the tent? Point
it out quickly and let us get the work over, or the master will slit
thy windpipe."
Bipin had not the faintest idea of the Rani's sleeping place, but he
indicated a tent at random.
"Siva protect me," he faltered. "What now will happen"?
One of the men approached the tent noiselessly and untied the
fastenings. He listened for a moment, when being satisfied apparently
that its occupant was still asleep, entered. His companion watched
outside.
In a minute the man reappeared bearing a struggling woman's form in his
arms, with one hand over her mouth to prevent an outcry. He hurried to
the waiting troop and relinquished his burden to Ahmad. The two men
then vaulted on to their horses, and the whole party were off without a
cry, or a word exchanged.
Bipin remained for some moments a prey to fear and astonishment. Then
it broke upon his mind that he had betrayed his mistress for some evil
purpose.
"Ah, hae, hae"! he cried. "Oh, wretch that I am. Ah, the unluckiness of
everything. Help! Help! good people. The Rani has been abducted."
In a few seconds guards ran with all haste to the spot; figures
emerged from the tents, a babel of tongues rose above the wail of the
secretary. Presently, to Bipin's surprise, the Rani herself appeared on
the scene.
"What is all this"? she demanded. "Bipin art thou intoxicated, or has
thy sleep been possessed by a nightmare"?
"Oh, great Lady," he cried. "Tell me, I implore thee, is it, in truth,
thyself, who speakest"?
"To be sure," she replied. "Who else should it be. Thou art becoming a
tiresome fellow," she added, "with thy midnight adventures. Disclose,
what manner of creature hast thou been in combat with now"?
"Alas! great Rani," Bipin returned. "It was the terrible Ahmad Khan who
compelled me to point out thy sleeping place, and he has gone off with
I know not whom."
"Ahmad Khan"? the Rani exclaimed, as the truth of his design flashed
upon her. "Now, by Heaven"! she cried angrily. "I will bear no more
with him. Go," she commanded to the captain of her guard, "mount with
a troop and follow swiftly. Thou art to bring him to me alive or dead.
The beast hath gone mad and must be exterminated."
The officer obeyed her order with dispatch. He rode forth in the
direction it was said Ahmad Khan had taken, but in the darkness
soon lost the track. At daybreak he was forced to return with the
intelligence that Ahmad had escaped.
Meanwhile Ahmad galloped northward with savage joy in his heart. He
clasped the insensible captive form tightly in his arms.
"Now Allah be thanked," he muttered exultingly. "The fair Rani, the
fickle beauty can escape me no longer."
He rode with all speed for a long distance in fear of pursuit, but at
last he could restrain his impatient desire to gaze upon her face no
longer.
The day was breaking as he halted his party. He moved a little apart,
and uncovered the fold of linen over the woman's head. He directed his
eyes with passionate rapture upon the unveiled face; then broke out
into a volley of oaths.
"Hell's fiends," he shouted, as his astonished gaze beheld an old and
wrinkled countenance. "What damnable trick of fortune is this? Am I
bewitched"?
His arms mechanically released the figure of an aged servant of the
Rani. She fell to the ground, and, recovering her senses, sat moaning
pitifully.
For a time, Ahmad was too dumbfounded to take any other course than
to explode curse after curse. Then his mortification and fury burst
upon the heads of the two attendants, who had been chief parties to
the misadventure. He rode at them with uplifted sword, but they warily
parried his blows, to finally disarm their master.
"What will my Lord do now"? they asked significantly.
Truly, what would Ahmad Khan do now? was the question. To return to the
Rani's camp was impossible. There was no choice but to go forward.
"Get thee home, hag," he addressed the terrified woman, "and bear Ahmad
Khan's best _salaams_ to thy noble mistress. Tell her, he hath grown
weary of her court and her caprices."
With fury he drove his spurs into his horse's flanks. By night and day,
with little rest, he rode for that lawless territory beyond the Afghan
border. There, his own followers seized an opportunity to relieve him
of his life and treasure.
In a barren, rocky pass, his body lay, pierced by a dozen wounds,
exposed to the vulture and the lion; while his murderers, in retreat,
quarrelled and fought over the price of their treachery.
It was a pitiless closing scene, in keeping with his nature.